


Invisible Ink

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6381826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He dedicates many words to her, but not all of them are on paper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invisible Ink

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2014 and is now being crossposted here along with the rest of my work.

He has written many words in his pursuit of describing Kate Beckett. Many of those words reside in books that can be found in any bookstore anywhere in the country.

Other words, however, only she has seen.

Actually,  _felt_  would be a better term.

 _Beautiful,_  he murmurs against her navel. He can feel her muscles twitch with the effort not to squirm. He traces his tongue over the soft skin, a tattoo made with saliva rather than ink.

 _Mine_ , he kisses into the juncture of her thigh. Over and over again,  _mine mine mine_  as he makes his way downward. He pinches the skin lightly between his teeth, sucks on it until it darkens. Like ink blots on her skin, purple-blue-red, a mark of his devotion.

 _Strong,_  he traces just above her knee.

 _Gorgeous_ , he rubs into her hipbone with his thumb.

 _Everything I ever wanted_ , he draws with his fingers as he traipses them up and down her spine.

She shivers under his attentions, arching and twisting, looking for more, but this is his magnum opus. His greatest achievement was winning her, is working with her, and he will not stop until every inch of her skin is covered in the evidence of his dedication.

 _Kate, Kate, Kate_  he writes, his new favorite word pressed into the crook of her elbow, the curve of her shoulder and the underside of her breast. Adjectives are massaged into her sides, words like  _witty_  and  _sexy_  and  _persistent_. Anecdotes go on her neck, where he whispers as he lavishes attention, things like  _I love when you tease me at work_  and  _I love that you're cranky before you get your coffee_  and  _I hate that you put your life on the line but I love you for it at the same time._

He confesses everything into her skin, staining the pale skin with his secrets.  _I could spend all day kissing you. I love it when I can make you scream. My worst fear is that you will walk away and leave me broken._

 _Stay with me_ , he traces with his index finger on the small of her back.

 _You are perfect_ , he rubs into the inside of her wrist.

 _Love, love, love_  is scattered on her breasts and thighs so many times that if he were using ink her skin would be black.

He is overflowing with words, and they pour out of his mouth and onto her skin. He wonders if she can taste them on his tongue, feel them cramming up his mouth and throat, felt but unspoken. He wonders if she can hear them in his murmurs against her throat, or read them in the shapes his mouth forms against her calf. He wonders if they travel through her in the vibrations he makes when he has her in his mouth, a shockwave made of words.

He feeds her as many as he can think up, pouring them into her mouth. He rolls them over his tongue as he works her, his head between her legs. He whispers them into her ear when he's inside her, his fingers drawing them into her skin. So many words, thousands upon thousands, soaking into her skin. Maybe, if he does it enough times, fills her ears and drowns her senses in all of the words he writes, she'll understand how much she means to him. He wishes he were like Shakespeare, like Pablo Neruda, able to compose verses of infinite meaning and love. He feels almost like a hack, reduced to simple sentences or forced to copy off the greats in his attempts to show her how he feels. But he will never stop trying. Every gasp, every moan, every jolt from her body only fuels him further. He will never stop telling her how he loves her. He will never stop telling her the ways in which she has captivated him. He will write novels on her body with his fingers and his mouth until the end of time, because that is how long it will take to share his heart with her.

But every word, every sentence, every line of borrowed prose, always leads back to the same place. Her skin drips with his invisible ink, but it all means the same thing in the end.

"I love you," he breathes against her lips.

And because she understands, because she has learned how to soak up his love without fear of abandonment or pain, she smiles at him and replies in kind.

He may coat her skin in his words, but she has marked his soul.


End file.
